Like a Thief in the Night
by hbcooper
Summary: Rogue travels to New Orleans on personal business and runs into a few old friends. Romy. Set shortly after the end of the last Gambit solo series.
1. Chapter 1

All characters owned by Marvel Comics - with the exception of a few I created to help move the story along.

Author's note: Very nearly a Rogue solo story, but when New Orleans is involved, you can bet Remy will show up eventually. As always, I write my character's with minimal accents. Mature audiences all the way through for violence, language, and some steamier scenes, but I will flag any especially smutty chapters for your protection. This takes place shortly after the end of the last Gambit solo series, pre-Uncanny Avengers' 'Apocalypse Twins' storyline. Hope you like it!

 **Chapter 1**

"Sorry it ain't the prettiest solution, Ms. Raven, but it'll hold until the new window comes in." I nodded in resignation, taking in the sight of the massive piece of plywood blotting out the mid-afternoon sun, and bent to rummage through my battered leather handbag in search of my checkbook.

"It looks just fine, Calvin, and please, call me Anna. I really appreciate everythin' you and your daughter have done for me these last couple days, I can't thank y'all enough…" I unfolded the register on an antique side table and whipped out a pen. "How much do I owe you?"

Calvin Theodore, neighborhood handyman and all around nice guy, put down his hammer and shook his head. "We'll settle up when everything's done. No sense you makin' out more than one check." I opened my mouth to protest but he just leveled those immensely solemn brown eyes of his at me. "It's just fine, Ms. Rav… _Anna_. I know it's been a challenge for you to deal with this all the way from New York." I chucked the wallet back in the general direction of my purse and ran a hand through the unruly white bangs that dangled across my forehead.

"You don't know the half of it, sugar." The New Orleans' PD had called me two days ago. My long dead foster mother Irene Adler, the mutant precognitive known to the world as Destiny, had left me a beautiful Garden District home among other properties spread across the world that I rarely visited or acknowledged, and someone, the police had no suspects, had broken into the house and ransacked it. Though my heart and soul would always belong to the band of mutant misfits branded the X-Men, my current superhero day job was as a member of Earth's mightiest heroes, the Avengers, and that made it more than a little difficult to pick up at a moment's notice and run down to the Big Easy for a personal emergency. Calvin and his daughter Zoe lived four houses down from mine, and in his spare time Calvin played Mr. Fix-it for those in the neighborhood and had been helping me put things back together. Originally a Philadelphia boy, he was a big bear of a man with skin the color of milk chocolate and a mustache that would make Burt Reynolds green with envy. He had played football for the Saints in another life, but once New Orleans had gotten into his blood he had never looked back North and made the city his permanent residence. I had met him the one and only time I had stayed on my inherited property, and he kept me up to date regularly on all the local gossip and did his best to keep an eye on the place.

My heart fluttered thinking of that particular visit to New Orleans, barely a handful of years gone by, though it seemed a lifetime ago. Remy LeBeau, the mutant thief Gambit, love of my life but presently my ex, had been seriously wounded fighting a big, bad villain named Vargas, and I had been just as injured, the bastard skewering the two of us with his broad sword and leaving us to perish in each other's arms. Somehow we had survived, pulled ourselves back to life for love of one another, and the X-Men had joined us in New Orleans while we recuperated. Troubled times, but good times I looked back on fondly despite all the pain then and since. Remy and I had nearly died for one another. Long ago someone told me that kind of sacrifice forged bonds that didn't break, and though we weren't together at the moment, I was inclined to agree with all my heart and soul. I had thought Remy and I would make this residence our permanent home, raise our family here, after all he was a New Orleans' boy through and through, but that didn't look to be in the cards so to speak. I had royally screwed up, that was the truth of it. Our relationship had always had major obstacles, and we both tripped over our own big mouths and bigger hearts at every turn, but the last cut had been mine to make and I hadn't been able to make amends, to tell him how wrong I had been.

I sighed unevenly. Worried, Calvin touched me lightly on the arm and I flinched, bringing a look of alarm to his face. Even after all these months, I still caught myself forgetting that I could touch people skin to skin without disastrous repercussions. The biggest of Remy and my obstacles right there, my mutant powers. Since puberty, my special gift had allowed me to share a person's thoughts, memories, and talents with the barest touch of my skin, the price being that I sucked out their soul and knocked them unconscious or worse in the process. For a long time it was uncontrollable, the slightest touch triggering the transfer, and I had covered myself from neck to toe everyday just to be able to walk amongst friends and family. Took me a long time to understand why Remy, who looked like a Greek statue brought to life, had wanted to waste his time with 'Anna the Untouchable', especially when with just a hint of his smug smile women dropped their panties left and right when he passed them by, but truth was he was just as damaged and lonely as I was, the gorgeous, cocky exterior hiding a fragile, broken heart beneath. We had helped each other heal some pretty deep wounds and in the process helped one another understand how deserving of love we both truly were. Still, my power had made it real challenging even on the best days. It was under control now and my life was free and easy in so many wonderful ways, but every so often, if I was caught off guard, that old panic slammed into me when I came into contact with someone.

"You sure you'll be all right staying here by yourself?" Calvin asked warily. I squeezed his hand to reassure him.

"I'm sure. I've got plenty to keep me busy…"

"Ms. Raven?" Calvin's daughter lightly crossed the threshold from the dining room into the sitting room. Zoe was starting college at LSU in the fall and her father had suckered her into helping him out for the summer. Where Calvin was a giant refrigerator-sized block of muscle, Zoe was small and dainty, fine-boned and beautiful. She must favor her mother, but she had certainly inherited her father's big brown eyes and sweet disposition. She held my phone aloft. "You left this in the dining room. The same man called a couple of times in a row before I could bring it in here. Didn't leave a message, though."

"Oh?" I held my hand out for the cell.

"Yeah. His picture's a little scary…" She creased her delicate eyebrows and the phone started buzzing again when she passed it to me, Logan's picture flashing on the screen. I huffed a breath that blew the bangs out of my face. Logan, the Wolverine, my longtime teammate and friend, had a serious big brother complex when it came to me. Most times it was endearing, other times…

"I better take this. Thanks again, y'all, for everythin'." Calvin waved and shouldered his tool bag.

"We'll be in touch. Call us if you need anything, hear?" He ushered a waving Zoe out of the room and I grudgingly took the call.

"Hey, sugar," I flopped wearily onto the antique wingback sofa perched in front of the floor to ceiling windows. The one Calvin had boarded shut was a blackened tooth in an otherwise pearly row.

"You talk to the police yet?" Logan's gruff tone raised the hackles on my neck like no one else could.

"Why, yes, I had a wonderful flight. Thanks so much for askin', it's so sweet of y'all to be so concerned…" I answered tartly. He could pull that tough guy shit on everybody else, but not me. I knew what a softie he was underneath all that hair and snarl, and when he pushed, I pushed back.

"All right, all right. Cool it. I wouldn't have called if I wasn't worried about ya', would I?" Point taken, but one of the great joys in my life was givin' him a hard time. "I still think I should have come down there with you."

"That's really not necessary," I was a grown-ass woman that slugged it out with supervillains and demi-gods most days before breakfast. I didn't need Logan, the big bad Wolverine, to come and babysit me. It was mildly insulting.

"Anything missing?"

"Million dollar question, sugar. I haven't spent enough time here to be able to tell. There's an insurance policy that lists all the high dollar items and they seem accounted for, but the little things? Kind of hard to tell. If you want my first impression, it looks more like whoever did this was lookin' just to trash the place to be an asshole, or they were lookin' for something specific. Doesn't feel like your standard B&E." Logan's breath hissed though the speaker.

"What did the Cajun have to say?" I puffed out my cheeks. There was the rational part of my brain that knew I should have gotten Remy the hometown boy involved, but I was still sore at him and still embarrassed with the way things had gone the last time I had seen him, so I had decided to do my best to keep him out of my mess.

"Don't know. Didn't call him." That got me more than a few heartbeats of silence before Logan spoke again, this time his tone clipped and measured.

"You want to tell me why?" He asked sharply. I swallowed the hot anger that jumped into my throat. The last person I wanted to talk to about my relationship with Remy was Logan, and I wasn't in the mood for one of his lectures when it was none of his goddamned business. I didn't answer and let the silence drag over the line instead. When he finally got the hint and realized he wasn't gettin' any more out of me, he moved on. "You think somebody knows it's your house?" I chewed my lip. It had definitely crossed my mind, but I thought it more likely maybe the house had been tossed not because I owned it, but because Irene Adler had.

My foster mother was the best at what she did, no offense to Wolverine, and what she had done had been valuable to a lot of folks. When her mutant talent to see the future had manifested itself in her late teens, the young Irene had been assaulted with innumerable visions of things to come, had nearly gotten lost in the tangled web of possibilities made visible by her powers. Unable to stop the onslaught and needing a way to bring order to the chaos, she had sat down and committed everything to paper, crafting diaries that spun a multi-volume horror story, each page a dissection of potential and probable timelines outlining the imminent history of mutantkind in her scrawling handwriting and deft illustrations. The effort of puking all of that madness across the page had left Irene blinded for the rest of her adult life, and drove her lover, my other foster mother Raven Darkholme, the sometimes terrorist Mystique, down a seriously dark path in their combined efforts to unravel the tapestry of the future. The X-Men had stumbled onto the diaries and had done our best to escape from their trap, but we weren't the only ones that knew the volumes existed. The break in could have been a coincidence, or it could have been something much more sinister. For a split second, I wished I could call Mystique. It would have been nice to get her opinion, have her look the place over. Her input could have been invaluable and saved me a lot of time. Then, I reminded myself that the last few times we'd seen each other she manipulated me and mine for her own agenda and tried to kill me. Raven never was what you'd call a loving mother, and throughout our entire relationship I had given her the benefit of the doubt and made excuses for her calculating behavior, but how many knives to the belly would it take to get through even my thick skull before I definitively ended our connection? I shared my suspicions with him.

"Could be somebody was lookin' for something of Irene's, maybe." Logan swore a blue streak.

"I thought we were rid of those fucking diaries. Now you're tellin' me you think there's more of them?"

"I'm tellin' you I don't know. It probably has nothin' to do with them, I'm just throwin' out options, but it's something I need to keep in mind. Whoever did this was after something. What else makes sense when somebody breaks in and leaves a Monet hanging on the wall?" He grunted, his favorite answer to everything.

"I got something else you're gonna love, darlin'."

"Oh?"

"Hank figured out how the Cajun got those files." I stopped myself from swearing my own streak. The last time I saw him, Remy had gotten himself into a whole heap of trouble, as usual, and had needed my team to bail him out. Before that, I had asked him to join me in New York as part of the Avengers' Unity Squad, the mutant outreach arm of Earth's mightiest heroes, but my embarrassment over our last encounter and conversation had stemmed from the team's eventual dismissal of his bid for membership. Private meetings had been held, heated arguments for and against his admission laid on the table by each of the members, including myself. Many of the arguments against Remy joining had been pretty brutal, and during our last goodbye he had quoted some of those opinions back to me word for word, though they were frankly missing a little context. The information was something he shouldn't have had access to, he could have only gotten it from files stored in the Avengers' supposedly impenetrable computer system, and my involvement in the proceedings had made me look like an asshole. I had told Logan about the incident and we had decided to keep our inquiries 'in the family' until we could figure out how the hell he had gained access. We had consulted Hank McCoy, the Beast, also an Avenger and X-Man just like us, to help with our investigation. Logan and I had went round and round over the hows and whys Remy had the material, and I knew he wasn't pulling my leg, I really wasn't going to like this.

"And?" The late afternoon sun streaming through the latticed glass wasn't the only thing warming up my temper.

"Figured you'd want to visit Papa LeBeau while you were down there, have a little conversation. Word is he's back in town…" Son of a bitch.

"The Guild?" Remy had been rescued, adopted, and raised by Jean-Luc LeBeau, head of the Thieves' Guild of New Orleans. Jean-Luc had a bad history of using, abusing, and manipulating Remy, and the badly edited version of the files he had parroted at me sounded like a prime example of those manipulations. One of the things Remy and I had in common, parents that ran hot and cold with their love, who worked their children's gifts for criminal advantage, dangling emotional connections just out of reach like a carrot in front of a donkey.

"We can't let this go, but the last thing I want is to pull Gumbo down into the mud if he really didn't have anything to do with it. Go talk to Jean-Luc, see what you can figure out before we take it to the big boys."

"You're damned right I will."

He growled. "Rogue, keep it civil. And call me. If I don't hear from you every couple days, I'm on a plane down there." I rolled my eyes at the phone.

"Are you kidding me?"

"Does it sound like I'm kidding? You take that gun with you like I told you to?" I scowled towards the slouched shape of my handbag on the floor.

"Yeah. Had to go to a different security line at the airport, but my Avengers' ID got me through." I stood and walked slowly to the bank of windows. I had hired a crew to take care of the garden below and the spring flowers were a heady jungle of blossoms, but it all seemed like such a waste if I was never here to enjoy it.

"It's not enough to have it with you, darlin', I want you to be prepared to use it."

"Logan…" Guns weren't my thing, I wasn't comfortable around them. I got that they were necessary and respected everyone's right to carry, but I had always had my mutant powers to take care of me or had borrowed someone else's. For me, weapons had rarely been required. Logan had taken it upon himself to teach me to shoot recently, but I was lousy at it.

"It could save your life, give you the edge you need to survive," he had told me, relaying a story about doin' the same thing a long time ago for Ororo Munroe, Storm, our friend and fellow X-Man. His voice slipped into Papa Bear mode. "Anna, I ain't treatin' you any different than any other woman on her own in that city. Crime rate's pretty high, makes me more than a little nervous you roamin' around on your own. We both know you have a history of jumpin' feet first into situations that are way over your head. I just want you to watch yourself." He chuckled. "Still, can't believe a Southern girl like you is anti-gun…"

"Oh, no, don't you dare pull the Mississippi card on me. You seriously tryin' to red-state me, Mr. Canada?" My voice was teasing. I grew up next door to New Orleans in Caldecott County, Mississippi, but my childhood was about as far removed from your typical magnolia blossom as could be thanks to my radically leaning foster mothers, though I definitely learned how to defend myself. "You know who raised me, sugar. Weren't no red or blue politics in our house, Mystique just saw things in fifty shades of grey…" He didn't get the reference, though I think it would have weirded me out more if he had, but I got a kick out of it.

"Take care of yourself, darlin'. Call me tomorrow." We said our goodbyes, and I tossed the phone onto the couch and took a weary look around. I was already exhausted and still had so much to clean up. The sight that had greeted me when I arrived a couple days ago had broken my heart. The house, a tidy Greek revival, normally looked like a spread for _Better Homes and Gardens'_ historic homes issue: polished wood floors, crown moldings, a spiral staircase, each room tastefully decorated with expensive rugs, artwork, and antique furniture. Tears sprang to my eyes as I took a slow look around. The house had been ripped to shreds from top to bottom, furniture flipped, dishes smashed, drawers pulled open, my abode looking like a frat house at the end of hazing week. I hugged myself despite the clammy New Orleans heat. This house had never felt like my home, not really. Irene had willed it to me and I had pretty much left it as it was when she was alive, frozen in time. Everything in it was mine by the letter of the law, but none of it was _mine_. I hadn't changed the decor or kept any of my belongings here, but that didn't stop me from feeling violated. Calvin and Zoe had been a big help with the cleanup so far, but there was so much that I needed to sort through myself. Who had done this? What had they been looking for?

I knelt to pick up a broken picture frame, and my teenage self, flanked by my smiling mothers, looked back at me through cracked glass. I had never come to this house as a child, never visited any of the opulent places that now had my name on the deeds. Destiny and Mystique had kept it all secret, kept me living the quiet life in small town Mississippi up to the day they started training me for my spot in the Brotherhood. I thought they loved me, but what had been real of our time as a family and what had been a carefully fabricated illusion? I knew it wasn't fair, but I tended to blame Raven more than Irene. It was ridiculous to put more of it on her shoulders when Irene was the one who would have seen it all play out with her powers, but there it was. It twisted my guts that they knew what was gonna happen to me, maybe I gave Irene a pass because she was gone and I could tell myself that she had kept an eye on the bigger picture and possibly better outcomes, whereas Raven was still here and still used me every chance she got. Lost in thought, I sliced my finger on a sliver of the jagged glass and reflexively dropped the frame at my bare feet and legs.

"Shit!" I jumped back from the shower of glass. The cut wasn't deep, but a good amount of blood welled up from the slit. I tiptoed around the gleaming landmines and stepped into the kitchen to run the finger under cold water. Hell if I knew where any Band-Aids were at this point, if there were even any in the house to begin with. Zoe had worked all morning in the kitchen while her father and I had tackled the sitting room and entryway, sweet girl had even ran to the grocery store for the essentials, and I looked appreciatively at all she had accomplished while I held a paper towel to the cut to stop the bleeding. The house, thankfully on the smaller side for the neighborhood, was still too much for me to handle. Built in the 1840s, it was two stories of scrolled columns covered by balconies, the gardens wrapped by looming wrought iron fences. Four bedrooms, five bathrooms, a formal sitting room, a dining room, a winding staircase fit for Rhett sweeping up Scarlett, vaulted ceilings, fireplaces, chandeliers, the amenities were overwhelmingly endless. Most of the house was decorated tastefully to match the original era of the house, the kitchen and bathrooms having been updated in the last decade, probably right before Irene had been killed, but now, all that beauty was drowning in its own mess, and I had so much work ahead of me.

The bleeding stopped. I snagged the broom, a dustpan, and kicked on a pair of flip flops, heading back to the newest mess with a brown paper bag. I swept myself a little path and knelt to pick up the battered frame. The force of the fall had snapped its corners, and something poked out from behind the picture. Mindful of what was left of the glass, I dislodged a rectangular piece of cardboard from behind the photograph. I thought at first it was a playing card with a big corner missing, but when I flipped it over I realized it was something much more ominous. A tarot card. An old tarot card, as old as this house, The Death Card, a skeleton in armor riding a white horse, hidden away for years behind our family photo. Had Irene expected me to find it? I had learned there were no such things as coincidences where she was involved. I yanked the photograph out and laid it face up on the side table, peered into the remnants of the frame for the card's missing corner, but it wasn't there. I padded over to the windows and stared at the faded image on the card. The lower right corner of it had been torn away, but I wanted to rip it into twenty more pieces and burn them all in the fireplace.

I knew enough about tarot to know that the Death Card didn't necessarily mean bodily harm or physical death, usually just change, but the name hit a little close to home. In a misguided attempt to save me and the X-Men from the villain Apocalypse, Remy had volunteered to become the horseman Death, and in service to his new master he had been turned into a monster that had tried to strangle the life out of me. He had come back to himself after a lot of pain and heartache, but not back to me, and though he never admitted it, I knew he was still plagued by the after effects of Apocalypse's influence. There was no cure for what that madman did to folks.

If Irene had meant the card as a joke, I wasn't laughing.


	2. Chapter 2

All characters owned by Marvel Comics

 **Chapter 2**

 _French Quarter Appraisals_. The sign dangled tauntingly, sticking its tongue out over the sidewalk from the ornate double-shotgun facade of the building. The Thieves' Guild of New Orleans, shrouded in centuries of whispered rituals and traditions, kept office space in the Quarter. Hiding in plain sight Remy had once said; I had nearly peed my pants when he told me about it. Their main headquarters was a moss-draped old plantation deep in the bayou, but the two-story building smack in the middle of tourist town gave them an active presence in the city proper, kept them organized and offered a safe-house for those on the job, as well as providing access to potential targets in and around their zip code. The funniest part about it was that it was actually a fully-functioning business with employees and a tax ID, and the unsuspecting wealthy called on them in droves to appraise their familial treasures. Remy said they didn't steal everybody blind that walked through their door, guessed it would have been like shitting where you ate, but the Guild was able to track the riches that existed in their metropolis. I'm sure they thought they were real clever.

It was late May, Monday morning, not the thick of summer thank God, but it was barely ten a.m. and the short stroll from the streetcar station had left the silk of my sleeveless blouse sticking to the small of my back. It was my fault though, just had to take the streetcar like some damned tourist. I had rented a vehicle, but the Blanche DuBois in my Southern soul couldn't resist the nostalgia, though New Orleans had long ago retired the streetcar named _Desire_. Walking the already bustling gridded streets of the Quarter stirred up a whole mess of memories. I had been here before, quite a few times, so some of the recollections were mine, but I had also absorbed the thoughts and remembrances of more than a few residents of the city, including Remy and his childhood sweetheart and ex-wife Bella Donna Boudreaux. When Professor Xavier, mentor and founder of the X-Men, had helped me gain control of my powers, he had cleaned out the old fragments that were left behind in my psyche from those I had absorbed before. Those washed-out impressions of souls had existed like scar tissue in my mind, a reminder of what my powers could do, but even after all this time, after my clean slate, vague echoes of those recollections still remained inside, and a New Orleans that was someone else's pounded over me with each step. Walking through the faded memories of others was like watchin' a movie you swear you've seen before but couldn't quite place. Maddening to know where to turn and when to step, muscle memory recalled it all in the mad hot rush of smells and sounds, not the details but just…feelings, overwhelming throat tightening feelings. It could have been easy to lose myself in those unfocused photograph flickers, in the texture of the cobblestones beneath my feet, but I had business to attend to and couldn't let myself get distracted.

I was polished and professional today. I had spent the early morning hours at the NOLA police department, my warm-up before tackling Jean-Luc LeBeau, King of Thieves, father of ex-boyfriends. The police had no new leads and flashing my Avengers' ID had gotten me nothing but a smirk from the middle-aged detective with the retreating hairline, and a snide suggestion that I have Tony Stark upgrade my home security system. Irritated already, I took a few calming breaths and smoothed the stray hairs that had worked free from the low chignon I had wound them into. Before I pulled open the door I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the glass. So far my hair and makeup had held up to the Southern sauna the day's weather was becoming, and I had worn my best skirt suit today, summer-weight and sophisticated, tailored to absolute perfection. The jacket was draped over my arm and the sleeveless peacock blue silk shell I wore underneath matched my shoes and handbag, both of which cost more than a used car. I wasn't one to flaunt labels, had always been more of a tank top and cutoffs kind of gal, but I wanted to look the part, look like I belonged in that Garden District mansion, to look like I should have been walking in the front door of the city's best antique appraisers. I'm sure Jean-Luc had heard all about my latest break-up with his son and I wanted no chinks in my armor when I faced him.

I stepped inside and my sticky skin was instantly bathed in the blessedly cool blast of recycled central air. I was a hothouse flower born and bred, but I hadn't wanted to melt before I made my first impression. A bell chimed at my entrance and an impeccably dressed blonde in her early thirties smiled a dazzling smile full of piano key veneers at me and stood up from behind a large elaborately carved desk of dark mahogany.

"Good morning," her voice dripped honey, just the hint of an Alabama accent, but the beauty-queen smile didn't quite reach her eyes. From her scrutinizing glare it appeared that the front office knew exactly what went on in the back. "Welcome to French Quarter Appraisals. What brings you in today?" I returned the smile and held my head high, walked a walk I had learned from the goddess Ororo Munroe herself, and leveled my own sharp green eyes at her.

With a voice sweet as peach tea I said, "I'm here to see Jean-Luc LeBeau." Her brow furrowed ever-so-slightly, so fast I almost missed it. Up until a month ago, Jean-Luc had been out of the country running bullshit Guild business out of Madripoor. Latest Avengers' intel from our network of people pegged him back in town and back to work. Logan had sent me a link granting me access to SHIELD's satellites, providing me a live-feed on my phone akin to a real time Google street view, and it had shown Jean-Luc walking cocksure into the front door of this very establishment not an hour ago. As head of the Guild, he didn't technically own _French Quarter Appraisals_ , but his name was linked to the business if you did just a little homework, and if you had the Avengers' connections, though it wasn't exactly common knowledge. Me throwing his name around had sure startled her, but she recovered well. I knew from Remy that his father liked working out of the city office, and tended to discreetly handle operations in town rather than from the Guild's stately old plantation. He wasn't a public face, but he sure didn't hide himself either. Remy had inherited his sense of humor, such as it was, from his father, and Jean-Luc's face grinned slyly at me from a photograph of the business's board members hung on the wall in a gold-leafed frame, hiding in plain sight again. The woman took a measured breath.

"I'm sorry, I don't believe I know that name…" I held her gaze and walked up to the photograph, tapping a manicured fingernail on the glass over his face.

"Try again."

She stepped between me and her desk. "Did you have an appointment today, Miss…?"

"Raven. Anna Raven. And no, I don't have an appointment, but he'll see me." She had been trained by the best to control her emotions, but I was pushing her buttons something fierce.

"Our appraisers see clients by appointment only, Miss Raven. Mr. LeBeau has an extremely busy schedule." My smiled faded and I walked up to the edge of her desk and gestured to the telephone balanced on the corner.

"Please tell him his son's friend Rogue would like to say hello." She plastered a tight smile on her face that was just this side of crazy.

"I am very sorry, but you really need an appointment, Miss Raven. Mr. LeBeau isn't currently in the building, and he's booked solid for the day, in and out of the office meeting with clients…" It was bullshit, and she knew that I knew she was full of it. The link Logan had sent me included an infrared view of the building, and a discreet check of my phone showed Jean-Luc's hot little body was right where it should be, behind the appraisal office's closed doors, the only other person in the building today besides me and Miss Alabama. I smeared a smile back on my face and let the Mississippi soak my voice.

"That's all right. I don't mind waiting." Before she could protest, I floated into a high-backed wooden chair that was clustered with other antique pieces in a sitting area in one corner of the office and demurely crossed my ankles. The woman looked torn. Did she kick me out? How? Why? Did she call for reinforcements? What if I did really know Jean-Luc and she pissed him off? What if I was crazy and shot up the place? I hadn't really done anything wrong yet, and I knew she sure as hell didn't want to call the police and have me arrested for loitering. She sat uneasily back at her desk and started typing on the laptop's keyboard. I watched her out of the corner of my eye as I took in the decor of the Guild's public face, certain that she was getting discreet instructions from Jean-Luc on what to do with me. My eyes swept the gleaming marble floors, circled round to the one wall of exposed brick, and traveled up the high ceilings that were edged in gold-leafed moldings. Heavy white columns were evenly spaced across the floor, and a polished grand piano and several expensive vases completed the look of opulent elegance. Behind her desk a heavy wooden door no doubt emptied into the more private shenanigans of the business, and I spotted several video cameras nestled next to the top of the columns. I smiled broadly at the nearest to me and settled in for what I was pretty sure was gonna be a long wait.

Hours passed. Hours, the furious heat in my throat mounting with each second that ticked by. Little Miss Alabama tried several times to politely ask me to leave, explaining over and over Mr. LeBeau's very busy schedule, but I kept sitting and kept smiling, kept checking my cell. I'm sure my ex's asshole of a father watched the whole thing on his little cameras, all day long, and with my phone I watched him right back. The Guild had no doubt equipped the building with secret entrances and escape tunnels, but thanks to the infrared and street views at my disposal I was able to keep tabs on him. For being 'so busy', they sure as hell didn't see a lot of foot traffic. All day long, except for a few phone calls, it was me, she, and he. It was okay. I could wait. The conversation I was meaning to have with him was worth any hoops I had to jump through. I had plenty of time while I sat there to think through the tongue lashing I had in store for him, got myself worked into a self-righteous little fit, when Miss Alabama stood and shattered my concentration.

"Miss Raven? It's closing time. I'll have to ask you to leave." Jean-Luc LeBeau, master thief and coward. I stood and smoothed my expensively wrinkled bone colored suit.

"I'd like to make an appointment for tomorrow, then." She pursed her lips and noisily closed the laptop.

"Mr. LeBeau has an extremely full schedule again tomorrow. I don't think…"

"Well then, I'll be here bright and early so I'm sure to catch him. I'll see you tomorrow. Thanks for the hospitality." She sputtered, but I spun on my fancy high heeled sandals and headed for the door, raising an eyebrow at the security camera as I passed. I was pissed, beyond pissed. Did he think he was funny? I stomped through tourists and over cobblestones, seeing nothing but a sick red haze. He was there. He had been there all day and he had kept me waiting on purpose just to mess with me. I debated sitting and waiting for him to leave, hanging out on the hood of that shiny black car of his parked along the side of the building, but I didn't want it to come to violence and that kind of crazy behavior would have crossed a line or two.

My huffy steps carried me towards the river and the sugary thick smell of beignets flooded my nostrils. After the day I had, I deserved a double order of powder sugar covered deliciousness and a latte for all my suffering. The sun was starting to sink over the welcoming green striped awnings; I'd probably have to take a cab home rather than walk back to the streetcar station. It was still warm out, but I could drink hot coffee in the middle of a desert. I crossed busy Decatur Street and wandered into the crowded hustle of Café Du Monde, and chose as secluded of a table as I could. One of the servers detached themselves from the wall and came my way with a glass of ice water.

"Bless you, sugar," I said, smiling widely at the petite Asian girl who couldn't have been more than seventeen. Within five minutes I was in fried dough heaven buried in mounds of powdered sugar. The breeze brought the smell of the river, my river, the smell always carrying images of Caldecott County, of Cody, of some of the few times in my life I had been truly happy. I tried to take a bite without tapping off too much of the delightful white dust, but the beignet was still molten, coffee, too. I wiped my messy fingers on a napkin and sipped at the ice water, the remnants of the sugar on my fingers mixing with the condensation on the glass to form a gooey paste.

The day had really been a bust and I still had so much to clean up back at the house. The kitchen and sitting room were good thanks to Calvin and Zoe, and I had tackled the suite I was using as my bedroom, but that left a lot of square footage I hadn't even touched. The detective had pissed me off, Jean-Luc had pissed me off. Part of me just wanted to pack up and go home in frustration, but I wasn't one to really turn tail and run. I realized the police had more important things to worry about, murders and such, rather than a part-time resident's mansion getting broken into, but if they couldn't help me I'd find out myself, and Jean-Luc, obstinate son of a bitch that he was, seemed as good a place to start as any. His people knew everything that went on in this city, their eyes and ears were everywhere. It wasn't the only thing I wanted to talk to him about, but I needed answers. I sure didn't think the Thieves' Guild had broken into my house, it was too sloppy and that kind of senseless destruction just wasn't their style. Those trained by the Guild had an elegance, a finesse to their chosen craft. If they had sanctioned a break-in on my property, I never would have known they were even there.

I wolfed down my cooled confectionery treats and ordered another round. I would sit in that damn office all week if I had to. I was talking to Jean-Luc whether he liked it or not, and I was keeping Remy out of it, I wasn't running to him like some needy ex-girlfriend. This was his town, his people, and I probably should have called him to at least get his opinion on the situation, but I just couldn't bring myself to do it. It had been a month since the Avengers had bailed him out, a month since he had kissed my forehead and threw my own words in my face, a _month_ and he hadn't called me and I hadn't called him. It was childish, sure, but I thought we were closer than that, I thought we were still at least friends, but I wasn't going to cave first. In those files Jean-Luc had stolen, I had said some rotten things about Remy. Truthful, but rotten, and the look on his face when he repeated what I had said back to me had broken my heart. The worst part of it was, my words had been twisted, my arguments taken out of context. I would own up to every bad, spiteful time I had ever put my foot in my mouth, but if Remy was gonna hate me, I wanted him to hate me for the whole truth, not for some hack editing job that would have made a tabloid proud.

It was dark by the time I hauled myself up from the wrought iron chair and brushed the speckled white trail from the front of my blouse. I carefully crossed back over an even busier Decatur and said hello to a couple of the horses waiting to pull tourists in their carriages along the backside of Jackson Square. The park was closed and gated for the night, but I could see the giant bronze statue of the hero of New Orleans, Andrew Jackson on horseback, in the eerie dusk. Walking along the looming iron fence, I caught sight of the gathering kitty-cats that populated the park after we puny humans were locked out. I smiled. Remy had always joked that the hordes of cats that made their way into the park after sunset were actually an army of thieves and spies, a la Fagin's mob in _Oliver Twist_ , and the furry soldiers spread their claws throughout the city in service to their own wicked agenda. At least I thought he had been joking; New Orleans was a strange place, after all.

I shook my head and turned up St. Peter Street and headed towards the illuminated cathedral. Lining the edges of the park were spiritualists, palmists, and tarot card readers, their tables shrouded in the pageantry of flickering candles and dark lace. I reached into my handbag and my fingertips brushed the edge of the torn tarot card I had unearthed behind my family photograph. It could be nothing. Maybe Irene hadn't even put it there, but in my gut I knew that was wrong. My pathetic Google search hadn't really given me much on meaning and context for the Death Card beyond what I already knew, but it would have been nice to ask a so-called expert to see if I had missed anything. I counted a dozen spiritual performers, at this time of night some were just setting up and a few were already busy with tourists. In the darkest corner, near the massive oak tree that resided in the park but stretched its branches over the slate slabs of the pedestrian mall on St. Peter, sat a woman. In the light of her candle, she looked to be in her late fifties and of Creole descent, her features and skin that beautiful blend of French and Caribbean that was the best of both worlds. Behind her stood a tall young man of about twenty, his features sharing enough in common with the woman that he could have been her son. Where some of her peers were playing the part outfitted in their best Elvira garb, she was dressed in a simple dark tank dress, her long greying hair twisted into an elegant bun on top of her head. What stood out to me was the white tablecloth covering her table, only lit by a single candle. Simple, understated. Usually, in my experience, the real deal didn't need to hide their talents behind a smoke screen.

I stepped into the light pooling from her candle and the woman started, her eyes widening in what looked like shock. She recovered her composure and gestured to the chair opposite her at the table.

"Please, sit. You may call me Angelique." Her voice had the flavor of the city with just a little extra spice. "Have you come for a reading tonight?" The smart ass in me wanted to ask Miss Angelique how she didn't already know the answer to her own question, but I sat and pulled the card from my purse.

"No, not exactly," I held out the card. "I just need some information, if you could. Please, what can you tell me about this?" Her face paled and she held a slim, trembling hand out and took my card. I held my breath as she stared at it, a finger lovingly tracing the jagged, torn edge. The young man took a step forward but she held up her other hand to halt him. She laid the card on the table and swallowed, the shadows playing up and down the movement of her slender throat. She placed her fingertips on the deck of tarot cards that were resting close to her on the table. When she spoke, her voice was a halting whisper.

"The cards, they speak to you. Do you understand? They are an extension of your soul, a part of your very being. It takes a long time to form a connection with your deck, a lifetime really, the pieces all working together in harmony. I have been aware of my gift, have been using my abilities to speak to the spirits since I was a child, but this is not the first deck I have used. The first was lost to me…" She nodded to the young man, who looked about ready to jump out of his skin. "My bag please, Phillip." He glared at me, but stooped and handed her a large, black satchel that she placed in her lap. She pulled something from the depths of the bag and held it at the edge of the table, but I couldn't see it in the light. Her voice continued in that haunted, hoarse whisper. "Thirty years ago, I was a young woman, like you. I sat in this very spot, on a night very much like this, an uneventful night of tourists and lousy tips. I was packing up to leave when a woman approached…I heard her coming down the sidewalk all the way from the cathedral, heard the tapping of her cane on the cobblestones." Her eyes took on a dreamy, faraway look, but I went cold in the heat. "Such a strange noise, I can still hear it, clear as that night…" My mouth went dry and the load of fried food twisted uncomfortably in my stomach. I wanted to scream at her to shut up, to stop, but I already had an idea of what was coming next. "She sat down, her unseeing eyes covered by dark glasses, and she told me a fantastic story, too fantastic to believe, of a world of people so powerful they seemed like magic… but, she knew things, things there were no earthly way for her to have known…and then, she reached out and ended the life of my first deck." Her right hand came up from under the table, and with it she snapped a triangular piece of cardboard onto the white linen, one edge ragged and rough. "She described a woman to me, and said one day, this woman would come to pay me a visit. Then, she took hold of my card, Death, a card of change, and she tore it apart…" The triangle was the missing corner of my tarot card and she nudged the pieces to fit back together. "…She told me I was to keep one piece and that I should give _this_ to the person who brought me its other half…" Her left hand came from under the table and I nearly sobbed at the hauntingly familiar sight of a broken-in leather book. She laid it on the table.

"It was thirty years ago, the book is so much older…" Angelique shook her head, confused, and opened the aged binding. "But here you are…just as you look now…who are you? Is it all true?" She turned the book to face me, and there, on the page, was a faded drawing of a woman, a woman that was clearly meant to be me. Shit. Another of Irene's diaries? How could they still continue to surface after all this time? I swallowed hard and slid the volume from under her hand, trying my best not to shake.

"Is it true?" I repeated, not as successful at keeping the quiver out of my voice. "Sometimes." I hastily stowed the book into my handbag and stood and turned away, trying not to run, ignoring the pleas for understanding that grew quieter the further away my legs carried me.


	3. Chapter 3

All characters owned by Marvel Comics

 **Chapter 3**

I was not going to read it. Absolutely not. Nothing good would come of it, the X-Men had barely escaped the quicksand of that damned diary's brothers and sisters, the same trap that had driven Mystique into batshit craziness. The diaries we had handled previously were indecipherable stream of conscious ramblings, drawings and written paragraphs all tangled together and spewed onto page after page of lunacy. Making sense of them had been a near impossibility, but we had tried and nearly died in the process, finally deciding to let the future take care of itself. That was why I was not going to read that book. I wasn't.

The next evening, I moved gradually from room to room of my battered but slowly healing house, the book following me from bedroom to bedroom to the kitchen and back again. I wanted to hide it, to throw it away, to burn it, but I just couldn't. I also couldn't let it out of my sight. It seemed to follow me with imagined eyes, I could sense its presence wherever I was. It was dark outside now, but the day and evening had been warmer than the one before.

I had spent another disgusting waste of a day at _French Quarter Appraisals,_ and had been shut out by Jean-Luc and his illegally blonde secretary again. She had reminded me, several times, that Mr. LeBeau was a very busy man and he wasn't available for appointments, but I parked my stubborn ass in the same chair as yesterday and sat the whole day, that diary burning a hole in my handbag. Jean-Luc made me feel like some small town hick trying to get an audition with a big Hollywood producer. Just who the hell did he think he was? Several times I had stopped myself from jumping up and knocking that wench down and out with my powers and charging through that heavy wooden door behind her desk, but I knew that just wouldn't do. I was good, no bragging overconfidence, just fact, but I didn't know if I was that good. Who knew what defenses lay beyond that door? If I still had Ms. Marvel's powers, maybe, but I was a tad bit more breakable these days. That, and I still wanted to keep things civil with Jean-Luc, he was my friend's father after all. My _friend_. That moniker attached to Remy after everything we had been through felt laughably insufficient to describe the passions between us. I still loved him. How could I not? I just wasn't sure if that love was enough to bridge the distance, and hadn't allowed myself the opportunity to sort it all out. I'd play Jean-Luc's little game one more day for Remy's sake before I did something more drastic and dramatic to get his father's attention.

I smoothed the duvet on the queen sized bed in the last spare room and sighed. Tomorrow. He couldn't avoid me forever, I wouldn't let him. One more room down, I stepped towards the door, but felt the book's eyes on me and stepped back to the nightstand to retrieve it. I entered the master suite and tossed the diary onto the enormous downy white island that was the bed. Like the rest of the house, this room, or rather rooms, was just too much. A sitting area surrounded a fireplace in one large section of the suite, a wall of French doors opened onto the second story balcony overlooking the gardens below. The bed was a four-poster that was at least a California King, I think, or was there something bigger? My foster mother's never did anything by halves.

I was hot, dirty, and irritated, so I decided to run myself a bath. The bathroom was one of the more modern rooms in the house, and the tub was a gorgeous, claw-footed monstrosity posed in front of floor to ceiling windows. There was a separate shower stall with four massaging jets, the surface spiraled in vintage octagonal white and black tiles that continued their patterns across the floor. I started the bathwater and dumped in way too many bubbles.

While it filled, I put in a phone call to Psylocke, Betsy Braddock. My friend and sometime teammate was vacationing in Europe currently, and had happily agreed to check on some of my other inherited properties. It seemed like a good idea to look over everything I owned in case New Orleans hadn't been an isolated incident. She was due in Greece today, and despite the time difference, I knew she'd be awake.

"Hello, luv," she answered. I adored Betsy's voice. That British accent, all smoky and low, though I was pretty sure she'd never burnt a cigarette in her posh life.

"I didn't wake you, did I sugar?" She laughed a trilling note.

"Who could sleep, darling? I am currently sitting on your safe and beautiful balcony, wine glass in hand, admiring the stars, waiting for the sunrise, breathing the ocean air."

"That's good to hear. I appreciate you checking on things."

"Yes, everything appears to be in order, just as we left it." A few of the X-Men, or X-Women, had spent a very eventful girl's only vacation at my inherited Greek villa not too long ago. Betsy kept her tone light-hearted, but I could hear an undercurrent of worry when she spoke again. "Are you sure you do not need me to check any other properties? I hear New Orleans is particularly lovely this time of year…" Logan had put her up to that I was sure, because we normally didn't patronize or coddle one another, we had known each other too long for that kind of bullshit.

"No, I'm fine. You've done more than enough for me already."

"Well, twist my arm again sometime with a free stay in a seaside villa that I have all to myself. Well, nearly all to myself…" The seductive smirk in her voice was evident even an ocean away and I wondered who the lucky guy was. Or gal.

"My homes are your homes, sugar, you know that."

"Likewise, darling. We're family, after all. If you change your mind…"

"You'll be the first I call. Well, the second. Logan might get jealous." We both laughed and said our goodbyes. My bath was ready, but I needed to put in my call to Logan. I was truthfully all talked out and just wanted to soak, so to be a smart ass I snapped a picture of myself holding the day's _New Orleans Times-Picayune,_ pointing at the date hostage-style, a big old smile on my face, and sent it to his phone. I tossed the cell on the bed next to the diary. The diary I was not going to read. Not at all.

I swam in that tub until my body had soaked all the heat and bubbles from the water, then proceeded to do every girly maintenance thing I could think of. I shaved, plucked, masked, lotioned, I even painted my toenails a cherry red, anything to not read that blasted book. I watched it out of the corner of my eye while I untangled the wet curls on top of my head, brushed my teeth, and popped my pointless birth control pill. When there was nothing else to distract me, I flopped onto my stomach on the white down comforter. My phone buzzed angrily with a couple rude texts from Logan, but I didn't respond.

I sat up and crossed my legs underneath me, picking up the battered leather book that had been giving me heart palpitations since yesterday. There were thirteen more of these, and the story Irene had woven between them had danced from one volume and intersected with another in a less than linear fashion, making heads or tails of them had been worse than following the fantasy folks of Westeros. I turned it over in my hands. This book looked like it had been through hell, the leather was worn nearly through on the corners, and the spine felt like it was broken. Irene had worked real hard to keep this one quarantined from its fellows, and worked real hard to make sure I got it. There was something she wanted me to see, and I needed to put on my big girl panties and figure out what that something was. My hands started shaking, but I opened up that damned memoir and started slowly turning pages.

To say I was confused by its insides would be a given, though not confused how I would have assumed. To say I was disappointed, however, was a bit of a surprise. This particular diary, like the others, was a jumble of sketches and prose that wound itself in eccentric circles, but it became glaringly obvious real fast just how different this volume was. The contents, the effort undertaken to place them on the page certainly costing my foster mother a bit of her soul poured through the stroke of her pen, were almost exclusively about _me_. Flipping the pages was like reading my own personal journal of the last few years, it was amazingly, frustratingly, _old news_ , a retelling of the journey I had been through gaining control of my powers. The Hectacomb, Strain 88, Baby Hope, The Marauders, Kurt's death, The Phoenix Five, Charles's death, these painful events twirled and twisted across the sheaves of paper yellowed and cracking with age. My temper rose and I clenched a fist in my lap to stop myself from screaming. What the hell, Irene? Why give me an out of date diary? Why keep it hidden when the information could have saved us all a lot of grief, saved Kurt's life?

I knew that I understood the connections of more of her rhymes and riddles because I was viewing them in hindsight, where the other diaries we had been deciphering on the fly, but the way she wrote this particular volume was worlds apart in readability from its siblings. The narrative of the timeline, more chronological and compact than any other of the diaries, continued marching in a vaguely sequential order through the last few years of my life, through Utopia, Magneto, Legacy, Rachel in space, the Avengers, and then, much to my heart's consternation, the tale it told abruptly stopped. The last page to meet my eyes was a horrifying drawing of Remy taking a bullet to the head in that prison the Avengers had rescued him from a month ago. I shivered, thankful he had been saved from his injuries, though the sight of him with blood running down his forehead still plagued my worst nightmares. My stomach pitched uneasily. The diary hadn't stopped because I had stopped reading or because Irene had stopped writing, it had stopped because the last few pages of the book had been brutally torn out, leaving only ragged edges as a reminder they had ever been there.

Did I really want to know what came next, anyway? I put the book in my lap and dropped my head into my hands. Jesus H. Christ. Why had Irene gone to all that trouble just to give me a damaged and incomplete diary? I went back to the beginning of the book and poured over each page again and again until my eyes were ready to burst, but it was all disappointingly familiar. Where were those blasted pages? Had something happened to the book after it had left my foster mother's possession? But, if she were trying to tell me something by leaving the book, wouldn't she have foreseen that it would have been ruined? My head joined my aching eyeballs with the mess of it all. I closed the book, knelt next to the bed and stuffed it in between the mattresses for safekeeping, needing to step away from it.

Sighing, I grabbed a pair of skinny jeans and a loose t-shirt. The person who could answer my questions was probably sitting behind her fold up card table dealing out false prophesies to gullible tourists. I glanced at the clock on the nightstand. Two a.m. Late anywhere but the French Quarter, Angelique'd still be there to nab the drunks stumblin' off Bourbon Street.

Only, she wasn't. I made the drive in my rental car in record time, even lucked out and found close parking, but when I stepped into the shadows of that slated walkway, a different face greeted me behind that white lace draped table. Phillip's dark eyes caught the flickers of candlelight when he inclined his head politely in my direction. "Good evening, Madam." He gestured to the chair opposite him and I slid it out and perched on the edge. "What brings you back to the Quarter?" I tucked an errant white and auburn twisted curl behind my ear.

"I was hoping for a word with Angelique. I had a few more questions for her." His smile was stiff and strained and cast more shadows on his handsome face than the candle.

"Regrettably, my mother is indisposed this evening." I bit my lip and stifled a sigh. I was right, Angelique was his mother and old Phillip sure didn't look in the mood to talk, but I didn't have a lot of options right now and needed information one way or another.

"Maybe you could help me. The book that your mother gave me? What did she tell you about it?" He tented his long fingers closer to the pulsing flame and smirked.

"Well. Yes. What else would bring you here, I suppose." I shrugged.

"Tarot reading?" I tried to make my smile genuine, but this kid creeped me out, there was something sharp and dangerous lurking beneath his surface, but I couldn't put my finger on what exactly, unless I literally put a finger on him and pulled it out of him with my powers. He gestured to the table top which was empty save for his hands and the candle.

"I am sorry, palmistry is more my specialty." I laid my hand palm up on the table and raised an eyebrow in challenge.

"I'm game if you are, sugar." He snatched his hands back from mine as if I had burned him.

"I do not think so, _freak_ ," he sneered, the slur a slap in my face. You never got used to that kind of prejudice, every time it still made my guts churn.

"So you read it?" My Southern civility was hanging on by a thread, and I was close to jumping the table and taking what I wanted from the depths of his mind, but I kept control.

"The book?" He raised an eyebrow. "Yes, I read it." He leaned back and stared somewhere distant over my shoulder into the thick, inky pockets between the streetlamps. "She tried to hide it, but never very well. I have seen your face rendered in that book since before I could read the madness that accompanied your likeness on each page. You have haunted my mother, you and that wretched blind woman, nearly driven her mad." I felt a twinge of sympathy for his situation. His mother, and by extension Phillip, had never asked to be a part of our world. They were nothing but collateral damage to women like my foster mothers and their concept of the greater good.

"When was it damaged?" He snapped out of his reminiscence and turned his burning eyes to meet mine, but I pushed back harder. "There are pages missing. Were they always gone?" He stood abruptly and I jumped up from my seat, wishing belatedly I had grabbed the gun Logan had pressed me to bring to New Orleans. He moved around the table and came to stand just beyond my reach.

"We are done here, mutant. I cannot help you." He bent over and blew out the candle, melting into the shadows before I could stop him.


	4. Chapter 4

All characters owned by Marvel Comics

 **Chapter 4**

By Wednesday, I was out of suits and out of patience. I threw my hair up in a ballerina bun and shimmied into a strappy white sundress decorated with tiny red flowers. The skirt was short and the top was low, but it was hot as sin outside and it was comfortable, more my style than those high end suits anyway. I stepped into a cute pair of wedges, grabbed my favorite gold aviator sunglasses and a red leather clutch and caught the next streetcar to Old Town. Calvin was bringing the new window today, but I trusted him with a spare key and he had my cell number if he needed anything. I hated wasting time with this again, but I needed answers before my bosses breathed down Jean-Luc's neck.

Miss Alabama scowled the best her Botox would let her when the bell chimed my arrival, and I settled down in my favorite chair and pulled out a crossword puzzle. Her heels clicked towards me on the marble.

"Miss Raven, this is getting just a trifle ridiculous…" The buzzing of the intercom from her desk surprised us both and we stared dumbly at it for a few heartbeats. She composed herself, clicking back to her desk to pick up the receiver, and I put on my listening ears. "Yes?" Her eyes widened and she turned her back to me. "Are you sure?" There was a pause, then a lot of loud words I couldn't quite make out puked from the handset. "Yes. Of course, sir. My apologies. I'll bring her back immediately." She hung up and turned to me, tight smile still in place. "Miss Raven? Mr. LeBeau had a cancellation this morning and has room in his schedule to see you, if you would please follow me…?" She pushed open that massive wooden door and I stood, walked my Ororo walk, and followed her into the inner sanctum of the Thieves' offices. The refurbished historic chic continued in the private wing, it was dark polished wood, gleaming floors, high dollar paintings, and luxury antique furniture the length of the spacious corridor lined with closed office doors. Miss Alabama knocked on the door of the far corner office that the Avengers' satellites and intel had pegged as Jean-Luc's.

"Enter!" came the muffled command. She grasped the brass handle and ushered me inside. The office was large and airy, the furnishings right in line with the rest of the place. Jean-Luc rose from behind a hulking desk, dashing as a mustachioed swashbuckler from a bygone era. "That'll be all, Tiffany, merci." Tiffany. How perfect. She screwed up her petal pink coated lips and shut the door behind me without another word. My ex's adopted father smiled that devilish smile all LeBeau men seemed to have mastered and bent over to grasp my bare hands in his gloved ones. Gloves. Guessed we weren't entirely friends. He air kissed the backs of them and then stepped slightly away, his eyes drinking their fill of me as he looked me up and down.

"So good to see you, ma petite." His accent was so thick I could have stood on it. He led me to a chair and leaned his wiry frame, clad in charcoal dress pants and a slim cut button down shirt, on the edge of his desk. "I wish you would have called ahead of time. I've been so busy, and Tiffany tells me you've been waiting to see me!" He winked. "Terrible thing, to keep a belle femme such as yourself waiting." I crossed one leg over the other and laid my handbag in my lap. Like father, like son, his eyes traced the line of my leg from sandal to skirt. I wasn't really there to flirt, but I could give as good as I got if that was his game.

I pouted slightly. "Was beginning to think you were avoiding me, sugar." He put a hand over his heart in mock offence.

"Now, why would I do such a thing?"

"Why indeed? Couldn't have anything to do with a whole mess of files you spirited away from my current employers, could it?" He shrugged nonchalantly and sat behind his desk again.

"I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about, petite." My temper crawled up my throat from the pit of my stomach, angry and raw.

"Can it, Jean-Luc. I'm not here to arrest you or to rip apart your office. Your fate's for folks of a higher pay grade than me to decide. I just want to know why." He tilted his head and regarded me thoughtfully.

"Why?"

"Why did you give Remy those files? If you're trying to drive a wedge between him and me, I gotta say I've already done a pretty good job of that myself, don't really need your help. What purpose did giving him those files serve other than to hurt him? What do you want from him this time?" He pretended to inspect his gloves for imagined dirt.

"What makes you think I want anything?" I snorted, surely shattering the sexy Southern stereotype I was hoping to embody.

"Please. When don't you want something from him?" His brown eyes swiveled to me and narrowed. "I just need to know how much danger he's in because of your agenda." He leaned his elbows on the desk and clasped his hands together.

"Remy is my son…"

"And when have you acted like it? You've used and abused him his entire life, taking advantage of his insecurities and twisting him so far around in his head he thinks he's unworthy of real love and affection…" He stood and I jumped up to meet him over the desk.

"What is between my son and I is none of your business anymore, is it?" I leaned over and bared my teeth at him.

"That's where you're wrong, sugar. That man is my family, and that makes whatever bullshit you're trying to pull him into _my_ business." He leaned towards me until we were centimeters apart.

"He. Is. My. Son. I love him. I would never do anything to hurt him."

"Prove it!" He suddenly closed the distance between us and kissed me. I was so surprised that I didn't pull on his memories with my powers, and his eyes widened in astonishment as he moved his lips back from mine.

"Your powers?" I gave him my best dimpled smile and even managed a little blush.

"Your gossip must be old, sugar. Powers don't work unless I want 'em to." I reached up and wiped my lip gloss off the corner of his mouth. He flinched slightly at my touch. "It's okay, I'm not gonna use them on you. Last thing I need is you running around in my head." He grasped my hand and kissed it, inhaling the smell of my skin, his anger subsiding. "I appreciate the kiss, though." He smiled that devil smile again and it tugged all the way up to his eyes.

"Pleasure was all mine. Just, let's not tell Remy, eh?" He squeezed my hand before he let it go and I crossed my arms under my chest.

"So, you'd let me _see_ your memories, but you won't _tell_ me what's goin' on?" He sighed and wearily sat in his chair again.

"Guild business, not that you couldn't guess. We needed…I needed…something that would separate him from the X-Men…from _you_ …something that would push him towards leading the unified Guilds." Jesus H. Christ. I thudded back into my own chair. Remy LeBeau, King of Thieves? No wonder he had been avoiding me. Jean-Luc held his hands up defensively when he caught sight of my face. "It didn't exactly work out, he turned it down. If you want anything else, you'll have to get it from him." His face shut down, and with a sinking feeling I realized it was all the information I was going to get out of him this visit. If the Avengers wanted more, they'd have to come and investigate themselves. Even after all the days of waiting to talk to him, all the time I had wasted, I didn't want to press my luck, we had both gotten pretty riled up and the last thing I wanted was to ruin what little civility still existed between us. I stood again.

"Thanks for your time, Jean-Luc, but I feel like I've infringed on your hospitality long enough. It was lovely to see you." He moved towards me and kissed my cheek, his hand travelling a little lower than proper on the small of my back. He smelled good, like leather and clove cigarettes.

"You, too, Rogue. If there's anything else I can do for you…" Oh, hell, I had almost forgotten the other reason I had wanted to talk to the master thief...

"Actually, there is something else." He looked at me curiously while his hand on my back moved in slow, distracting circles. He really had taught Remy everything he knew.

"I own a home in the Garden District, left to me by my foster mother when she passed. It was broken into five days ago." He stepped back from me and ran a hand along his jaw.

"What was taken?"

"That's the really weird part. Best I can tell, nothing." He stepped back to his desk and booted up the laptop resting on its surface.

"Address?" He tapped it in as I relayed it, intent on the screen in front of him. "There have been no recently sanctioned pinches in the Garden District. If nothing was taken, ma chere, how do you know you had a break in?"

"They trashed the place. Turned it inside-out, seemed to be looking for something they didn't find." He straightened up and regarded me seriously. "It didn't really seem like your Guild's style, but I thought if you had heard anything…" He nodded.

"I'll make inquiries. Come, I'll see you out…" He put his hand on my back again and pushed me gently towards the door. "Now, if you need anything," he produced a business card out of thin air, "here's my number. Don't hesitate to call." I held my hand out to take it, but he just smirked wickedly and slid the card down the swell of my cleavage. I barely stopped myself from kneeing him in the balls, instead batting my eyelashes and tucking it all the way down into my bra.

"Thank you, sugar." Oh, Remy and I were going to have a real interesting conversation the next time we talked, sure enough


	5. Chapter 5

All characters owned by Marvel Comics

Author's notes: Glad to see everybody loves Jean-Luc the cad as much as I do! He's so awesomely ridiculous. Whenever I write him, I think of the issue from the first Gambit monthly series (the number slips my mind, but written by Fabian Nicieza, sometime in late 90s) where Jean-Luc busts in on Rogue in a clothing store fitting room. That sort of behavior defines his character to me, you love him but you want to slap him. Thanks for reading and reviewing, I sincerely appreciate the feedback! A lot going on this chapter, things get a little crazy for our favorite Mississippi gal. (you know how I love my cliffhangers…)

 **Chapter 5**

I knew needed to get back to the house after my chat with Jean-Luc, but I just couldn't bring myself to waste such a perfectly sultry day on that depressing chaos. I checked in with Calvin to see if he needed anything, and he convinced me to take a break, to enjoy myself and try to relax, he had it all handled. I _tried_ to enjoy myself, I really did, shopped like crazy but didn't buy anything, checked out a couple of museums, strolled by the river. Called Logan. He didn't answer and I kept my message to a minimum. When I hung up, my fingers hovered over Remy's number in my contacts. Why couldn't I just touch it and call him? When had I become such a coward? The Guild had propositioned him for leadership, had used my words as the wedge to drive him away from those who cared for him, and I still couldn't make the call.

I wiled the day away the best I could, avoided thinking of what I had learned from Jean-Luc. I knew there was a hell of a lot more to the story than what he had told me. Remy and his secrets. Was it still my place to demand answers from him? I loved him despite everything, and his absence hit me most days like a cold fist in the middle of an aching chest. I wanted to trust him with all my heart, but every time I turned around something loomed from the shadows, threatening to tear us apart, but only if I let it. Could I trust him enough to let him lead me safely through the darkness?

After a long day of nothing, I finally distracted myself with a plate of Eggplant Napoleon and a helping of crème brulee under the branches of the willow tree in the courtyard at my favorite New Orleans' restaurant, _The Court of Two Sisters_. I wasn't Ororo, but I could feel that the heat of the day would eventually lead to thunderstorms, and the sultry twilight air blanketing the city was just my style. The evening should have been perfect, but I wasn't really enjoying myself. I sighed dejectedly. When crème brulee couldn't make you feel better, you were really in trouble. I finished and left an obscenely large tip for my adorable waiter, then left through their Bourbon Street exit. Darkness had fallen and I was greeted by that special Bourbon Street perfume of hot dirty diapers and rotting alcohol saturated seafood. The streets were packed, stuffed to the gills with mobs of drunken tourists and spectators. The Crescent City was thrivin' again, nothing like the wounded animal it had resembled post-Katrina. That strange déjà vu of walking through someone else's memories washed up and over me again and I stopped in the middle of the cordoned off street to soak it in.

"Show us your tits!" A stumbling douchebag in a striped polo shirt shook a handful of purple plastic beads in my face. My growl would have made the Wolverine proud, and the douche's friends pulled him hurriedly out of my way. I let myself get lost in the throngs of people and continued weaving through the crowd. Large groups of people were still a novelty for me. My powers had made mingling, especially with so little clothing on, nearly impossible for most of my adult life. Most people hated the push and shove of a large group of people, but my heart sang, my skin tingled with the casual touches of other humans.

Emcees and strippers dangled out of the thresholds of the bars next to seersucker clad gentlemen in straw hats, and panhandlers and gutter punks begged for money or offered drugs to every vacationer that stumbled by. I stopped again when a little old lady on a bedazzled hover-round with a _Jesus Saves_ sticker plastered to the bumper pulled up to a gorgeous dancer hanging out of the entrance of one of the clubs. The little old lady, her hair white as snow and her skin dark chocolate, had on a sparkly gold blouse with a matching beret, the stripper dressed only in a push up bra, thong, and platform heels. As I watched, the older woman patted the stripper's arm in a grandmotherly fashion and gave the young girl a handful of striped green starlight mints, then scootered on down the sidewalk. I smiled. New Orleans was a city that was unapologetic, rough and unique, a city not trying to be the next big thing for hipsters or millennials, New Orleans was just itself and had been for hundreds of years, and I understood why Remy loved it so much.

I winced and stiffened in shock when something sharp stabbed into my side. "Let's keep walking, shall we?" The Cajun accent this time was menacing. I nodded and allowed myself to be led forward, screaming angrily inside for not paying more attention to my surroundings. The voice was hot in my ear.

"No bright ideas. You'll be dead on the pavement before anybody could help you." The hand that painfully gripped me was gloved, the arm attached to it covered even in the oppressive heat, more than likely in preparation for me and my powers. I stepped carefully and controlled my breathing, looking for any opening, hoping to use the crowd against my attacker, but he shoved me into a darkened alley before the opportunity came. I spun away, felt the slash of a blade cut my dress and the skin beneath, but my fist connected with the flesh of his jaw and he went down to his knees, the man still fast enough to avoid my powers. I delivered a straight kick of my wedges to his hand, heard the knife skitter away. I stepped back in a fighting stance, my knuckles ready. I couldn't make out his face in the shadows, but he spat blood onto the stones and just laughed, a sick laugh that sent shivers down my spine.

"You think I come alone, mutant?" Too late, I heard a whistle that moved through the dark, twisted wildly to avoid it, but was hit in the neck, my skin pierced. I swatted at my throat and came away with a small dart, armed with a needle on the end. A hot dizzy tingle greyed the edges of my vision, I stumbled backwards, felt my head hit the hard slick cobblestones before I lost consciousness.

Awareness came back slowly, the pain dragging my perception lethargically skyward. I was upright, my arms and ankles bound, the rope threaded tight around my waist making it real hard to take a deep breath. My shoes were gone, purse too. I felt like I had been run over by a truck, my face swollen, my body heavy. With a supreme effort I opened my eyes, immediately wishing I hadn't, swallowing bile that burned my throat on the way back down to an empty stomach.

"Not so fast, mutant. Those darts pack quite a punch." My new friend's voice pounded hangover heavy in my ears. "Best be telling our mistress she be awake." Footsteps scuttled from the room. I took slow deep breaths and tested my bonds. _Shit shit shit._ My sluggish mind tried to hold down the panic that was lancing white hot from the pit of my stomach. I was still alive, so they must want something from me. No one knew where I was, no one would know to look for me until Logan didn't get my call or Calvin and Zoe noticed I hadn't come home. My body ached, my arms and legs numb with inactivity. How long had I been out? The door creaked open, and when I managed to raise my eyes I was greeted by two familiar faces, both of which wrapped my chest in terror tighter than the ropes holding me upright.

Phillip, the son of the tarot card reader Angelique, sneered at me and stepped aside. Behind him, Bella Donna Boudreaux, leader of the New Orleans' Assassins' Guild and Remy's ex-wife, entered the room like a queen and eyed me contemptuously. To say Belle and I didn't get along was an understatement. The last time we had seen each other, she had orchestrated the murder of my comatose childhood sweetheart out of pure jealous spite. Her icy scowl pierced into me, but even in my wretched state I held her gaze with mine and jutted out my chin defiantly. The hell if she was gonna get me shaking in my boots.

"Rogue." She spit out my codename through clenched teeth. "So good of you to visit, really. You got my little calling card I left at your house I take it? My boys do so love to decorate, but they get a trifle carried away sometimes…" I had been right. The break in wasn't the Thieves' style at all, just a bunch of Assassin thugs playing pretend. A set-up, and I had rode right into it.

"If you wanted me here, you could have just called." My mind raced. The trouble between us had been settled years ago, or so I had thought. Why would she come after me now, when Remy and I weren't even together? My still blurry eyes traveled to Phillip, following his mistress like a yippy little lap dog. My foggy thoughts whirred to connect the dots. What was I missing here? Bella Donna pulled on a pair of gloves and stalked towards me, her bearing demanding my attention.

"Strange, I seem to have misplaced your number..." Déjà vu tugged at my messed up mind and I flashed back to my earlier conversation with Jean-Luc, but shook it off with effort. He wouldn't come looking for me, either.

Bella Donna was a beautiful woman, and sophisticated enough that it had made me feel like a poor white trash country mouse in comparison when Remy and I had first gotten together, but while the outside of her was a blonde porcelain skinned fantasy, the inside was rotten, ugly, and evil. She had been bred for murder and mayhem and had accepted her fate gleefully. In that heart of black ice there were no aspirations for redemption, and I was grateful Remy had escaped her perverse influence before it was too late.

"I'm sure Remy could have given it to you if you asked him nice." The slap she delivered to my face sent flashes of light pin-balling around my field of vision. She bent and roughly grabbed hold of my chin, forced my eyes to meet hers.

"We're through, little mutant. You have been a thorn in my side for too long, and I will end our association on _my_ terms. But don't worry, I'll make sure to take good care of Remy when you gone…" She stood to her full height and nodded to her minions. "As soon as it's dark, take her out to the swamps. Make sure the alligators leave nothing behind." Fear and anger shimmied up my arms and legs, but my mind spun. As soon as it was dark? It had been dark when they had taken me. Had I lost an entire day strapped to this goddamned chair?

"You too cowardly to take care of me yourself?" My question got me another smack across the face, this time I tasted the rusty salt of my own blood. She grabbed a fistful of my hair and twisted my head back maliciously.

"I am through dancing with the reaper on account of you." She hissed and turned sharply to my attacker. "Get her out of my sight. Remember her powers." And with that, she spun on her heel and left the room, with not so much as a look back in my direction. _Bitch._

"Nighty night, mutant." No dart to the neck this time, just a heavyweight punch to the face followed by a merciful black.

The jarring of a bumpy road helped me claw myself back this time. It was dark and raining to beat the band; I could smell exhaust fumes and the wet smell of ozone. I was lying on my side, my arms tied behind me, my ankles bound. My ears rang and my head swirled violently enough to be thankful I hadn't eaten in probably a day's time. As my eyes adjusted to the dim light, I could make out the interior of a cargo van, the cab stripped almost bare. My attacker and Phillip whispered from the front seats, their voices barely audible over the Zydeco issuing from the radio's tinny speakers.

"You're lost," Phillip hissed.

"Not lost," my attacker hissed back. "It's this goddamned storm. Can't see the road signs…"

"I cannot believe you are lost! What kind of assassin are you?" Phillip's voice was a panicked squeak. While they argued, I inched my hands down my backside and slipped them under my feet, moving them back around to the front.

"Shut up! This is the right road, we just gotta find the dock…" The van lurched wildly and spun and I heard wet gravel spray against the side door. I wasn't tied down and couldn't brace myself in time, so my body slammed into the wheel well with a loud smack. If I survived this, I was gonna be black and blue all over. We did a couple more circles while I rolled back and forth and they screamed at each other. The van smashed to a shuddering halt in a ditch, the front end pitched at a downward angle so steep it rolled me towards the cab and wedged me on the floor between their seats. I was dizzy and groggy, but so were they from the impact, and before they recovered what few wits they had, I wiggled my hands under the seat and caught ahold of my attacker's ankle under his pant leg, did the same with my bare feet to Phillip. I pulled as hard as I could with my power, made sure it hurt real good and held on even after their unconscious forms slumped awkwardly forward in their seats.

I rolled back, panting from the effort, my heart hammering in my chest. I pushed down the onslaught of their memories the best I could, but caught an unwanted flash from Phillip, a memory of a drawing, Irene's drawing, a different page from the diary, one I hadn't seen. In the flash of image, I was holding Bella Donna by the throat with a skeleton hand, stabbing her in the heart with the other. I could see the caption written in Irene's careful scrawl: ' _Deadly Nightshade withers beneath the shadow of the Reaper_.' Deadly Nightshade, another name for Bella Donna; Reaper, another name for me in the fabricated world of a mentally ill mutant. I had a bad feeling I knew where those missing diary pages had ended up and how they had gotten there, but I couldn't deal with it right then. I was battered, bloodied, and bound, stranded in the middle of nowhere, Louisiana in a raging thunderstorm.

I squirmed around and managed to find a wicked looking knife strapped to Phillip's other leg, bleakly wondering what had been planned for me. I sawed through the ropes around my ankles, and barely managed to do the same to my wrists without cutting myself, the effort leaving me shaky and sweating. I searched the unconscious assholes for anything useful, and came up with a cell phone in my attacker's pocket. Jesus H. Christ, it actually had bars, even in the deluge. I swallowed my excitement and rummaged through what was left of his mind for his password, but the idiot had it set up for fingerprint recognition. I rolled my eyes and stripped off his glove, pressed his limp finger to the white button. My heart sank. Who the hell was I gonna call? I didn't know where I was and the nearest X-Man or Avenger were hours away. Tears blurred my vision. I couldn't call Logan or Betsy or Remy or Calvin, I didn't know anybody else in this city but Bella Donna and Jean-Luc…

I sat bolt upright at a crack of lightning and thunder and hurriedly wiped away the tears with the back of my hand. They had to have searched me, right? These were trained killers, there was no way they had missed Jean-Luc's business card wedged between my boobs. I fished into my cleavage and nearly cried when my fingers found the slightly bent and damp rectangle. My trembling fingers had to type his number three times before I got it right and I prayed with all my might that he would answer. I sobbed at the sound of his voice.

"Allo?"

My mouth was so dry I could barely speak. "Jean-Luc, it's Rogue…"

"Petite! So soon since we last spoke, you make an old man blush!"

"I'm in trouble, Jean-Luc, I'm hurt…" His voice became deadly serious.

"Where are you?" I looked out the windows into the churning blackness, suddenly so drained.

"I…I don't know, they grabbed me off the street…they said they were taking me to the bayou to kill me…but they got lost, wrecked their van…"

"Who, petite? Who's got you?"

"Assassins. Bella Donna." I heard the sharp sizzle of his breath, but my body was getting so heavy I was having trouble following his words.

"Stay on the phone, we tracing your number now with the satellite, but the storms are making it tough. Stay with me, petite. Remy never forgive me if something happen to you..." I giggled and leaned my aching head against the back of the van seat.

"You have a satellite?" My eyes were weary weights. I wanted to keep them open, but I needed to rest them for just a minute…so tired…

"Rogue…Anna!" I jumped and nearly dropped the phone. "You stay awake, honey, you hear me? Keep talking to Jean-Luc. We got your location, we coming…" I smiled and my eyelids drooped shut and though I tried to fight it, I let myself slip into the warm water bath of nothingness.


	6. Chapter 6

All characters owned by Marvel Comics

 **Chapter 6**

Waking up in strange places seemed to be the theme of my night.

I was nestled in strong arms, my side and head burrowed against a warm chest that smelled of leather and clove cigarettes. I breathed a shaky sigh and tried to push myself up, rewarded for my efforts by a whole heap of pain that pushed me right back down.

"Easy, petite, easy." A rich voice sounded in my ear and rumbled soothingly beneath me. "You took quite a beating. Try not to move." My fuzzy mind knew whose voice I wanted it to be, but it took me a second before I recognized it as Jean-Luc's instead. I forced open thick eyelids while his long fingers trailed reassuringly up and down my bare arm. I was too hurt, too angry, and most of all too grateful to be embarrassed by the fact that I was scandalously draped across the lap of a man I had expected to someday be my father-in-law.

"Wha… happened?" When I spoke, I tasted the tarnished crust of salt that was my own dried blood on my lips.

"Oh, the usual. Damsel in distress, assassin versus thief, thief versus assassin…" He waved his fingers airily and I tried again to sit up, but he held me fast in his arms. Defeated, I lolled my head back against him.

"I'm sorry," my voice trembled, much to my annoyance. "I didn't know who else to call." He chuckled softly.

"Think nothing of it, petite. Always happy to go after those losers anyway. Nice to have a valid reason for once." Looked like we were in the plush leather backseat of his flashy black town car, gliding effortlessly through the darkened rain soaked alleyways of the city, puddles of light from the streetlamps pulsing over me in a steady rhythm. Nothing seemed familiar through the tinted glass.

"Where are we going?"

"Taking you home. Your home. Tante Mattie meeting us there, she'll be able to help you." I smiled and winced in the same motion. My fingertips gingerly felt the outline of my swollen face. Jean-Luc kissed the top of my frightfully tangled hair, long ago unleashed from its ladylike cage. "It's not so bad. You still breathin', right?" I let my hand drop and curled it against his chest.

"You gonna fill me in on what happened, or does my rescue fall under the heading of ancient guild secrets?" His face smiled against my hair.

"You had rescued yourself, ma petite. I merely provided transportation." The hand resting on my knee squeezed it reassuringly. He wasn't his usual flirty-dirty self; he was shaken in a way I had never seen him. The role of the charming cad was normally his to play, but right now that mask had slipped, and I had a feeling I was in the company of the real Jean-Luc LeBeau. "You scared the hell out of me, Anna. Your voice was so strange, so quiet and so far away, and then you stopped talking, even though I was screaming for you to answer at the top of my lungs…" His shuddering breath shook my body. "We got to you as fast as we could, but all I could think was, what am I gonna tell Remy if we didn't reach you in time…" He cleared his throat and slammed the mask firmly back in place. "But, all's well, eh? You look like you went ten rounds wit' M'sieu Tyson, but we got to take care of a couple of lousy assassins in the process. Did those morons really get lost?" I nodded weakly and he muttered something under his breath in French. "Bella Donna has certainly lowered her standards." My hammering heart popped me forward in his lap.

"Bella Donna! You have to…she…!"

"Already handled, petite. My people took care of her. She in a lot of trouble. Seems this little attack was against the wishes of the Assassins' Guild. If you repeat this, I'll deny it, but the leadership of their guild not as dumb as they look, at least in this case. You got a lot of powerful friends they didn't want to piss off, so the guild forbade her years ago from continuing her vendetta 'gainst you. Not sure what pushed her to defy their orders after all this time…" A stolen camera flash of Irene's drawing courtesy of Phillip's memories popped in my mind, but I didn't share that particular detail with Jean-Luc. If he didn't already know about the existence of a whole grip of diaries that possibly predicted the future, it was best to keep it that way. The rest of Phillip's memories were gone, but I had seen enough to know that he had desperately wanted to be a part of the Assassins' Guild and their ancient, secret world, to achieve the status, to earn respect. He resented the life his mother had lived, her tourist trade was pathetic to him, and my foster mother Irene and her diary had shouldered the blame for his mother having never clawed her way out of the gutters of New Orleans, it seemed Angelique had wasted her youth waiting for me. He had practically worn out the pages of the diary over the years, burning each image into his mind. He had recognized Bella Donna Boudreaux from the depths of that memoir and had seen his chance. Knowing his mother would miss the entire book, he had ripped a chunk of pages free and risked his life taking them to Bella Donna. His gamble had paid off, the pages, especially the lovely portrait of the two of us, had enraged her and reignited her revulsion for me. She had made Phillip one of her most trusted, and together they had worked to set their plan in motion, had lured me to the city under false pretenses. They both nearly had their revenge because my stubborn ass had insisted on handling this one by myself.

The lights were on and the rain had stopped by the time Jean-Luc's driver pulled the town car up to my house and opened our door. I managed to bite my tongue before I opened my mouth to ask how they had gotten in without the key. Jean-Luc shifted out from under me, and when I clumsily moved to climb out of the vehicle, he shook his head and swept me off my feet and into his arms, carrying me blushing bride style towards the front door. His driver, anonymous enough you'd never pick him out of a police lineup, opened wide the large oak front door and Jean-Luc stepped inside, his Cheshire-cat grin splitting his face.

"Carrying you over the threshold? One more thing we don't tell Remy, I think." I rolled my eyes, which hurt a hell of a lot more than I expected it to. I fleetingly wondered if he'd continue on up the sprawling staircase smoother than Clark Gable, but he settled me on the sofa in the sitting room instead. "I'll fetch Tante," he murmured and kissed my cheek, his mustache tickling the skin beneath it. The lights were thankfully dimmed, but I closed my eyes and tried vainly to find a comfortable position. Every square inch of me hurt. What I had seen of my arms and legs was filthy, bloody, and scratched and I probably had no business sitting on that pristine antique sofa, but what the hell, it was mine anyway. My shoes were gone, purse, too. Tears burned beneath the lids of my already throbbing eyes. What had Irene hoped to set in motion by giving Angelique that diary? Destiny's motivations were always clear as mud, but this time her manipulations had nearly cost me my life, and for what? Big, fat nothing. I was too tired to scream, but I sure wanted to.

Warm fingertips lightly touched my arm and my eyes were greeted by the comforting face of Tante Mattie. She pressed a steaming mug into one hand and cookies into the other and helped me sit up, then sat her squat frame on the sofa beside me.

"Drink this, chile, and have a bite. It'll help with the pain and the bruises." Tante Mattie. Where Jean-Luc was Remy's adopted father, this woman had been the closest thing to a mother he ever had. She was short and dark and comfortably plump, your favorite grandma, but the pleasing outer package hid a tremendously powerful woman. Far older than she looked, she had quietly sat behind the scenes of the Guild and used her magic to help manipulate events for decades, centuries I'd bet. I took a sip and the hot liquid numbed the worst of the pain as it trailed down to my belly. Her broad smile crinkled the edges of her earnest brown eyes and she squeezed my hand. "Good to see you, chile, good to see you safe."

"Thank you. It's good to see you, too." Jean-Luc strode into the room and knelt in front of me.

"Well, Tante, we need to be makin' funeral arrangements, or is our girl gonna pull through?" She scowled and swatted at his arm. King of Thieves he may be, but Tante ruled his house.

"Hush up. She's strong, take more than Bella Donna can dish out to keep her down." She turned to me and took the now empty mug from my hands. "You just need a hot shower and a good night's sleep. You gonna be bruised to high heaven and a little sore, can't make that go away entirely, but you be just fine." She stood and shooed Jean-Luc out of her way. "I'll get you an ice pack for that shiner you startin'." Jean-Luc took her spot on the sofa and grinned at me.

"What?" I asked warily.

"Present for you." With a flourish he reached into the folds of his leather trench coat and produced my shiny red clutch. I couldn't stop my jaw dropping to the floor.

"How?" I sputtered and dug through the pockets, though I knew it would all be there. He patted my knee.

"Ancient Guild secret. Though, you may want to call that M'Sieu Wolverine. His text messages are gettin' fraught…" I swallowed hard and scrolled through them; it was midnight now, but the date bottomed out my stomach. Shit. I _had_ lost almost an entire day as Bella Donna's captive. If I didn't call Logan back soon I was gonna have a hairy houseguest, but I was too tired at the moment to care and set the phone in my lap.

"Quite the piece you're carrying there, petite," Jean-Luc said casually and gestured to my handbag and the gun inside. I snorted.

"Fat lot of good it did me. Guess I'm too used to settling things with my hands." He took mine in his and kissed the backs of them.

"Is there anybody you…want me to call?" His raised eyebrow implied he was talking about his son. I shook my head.

"No, I'll be fine. You've already done more than enough for me tonight…"

"I can stay, or Tante, if you'd like." Gingerly sitting up, I swung my legs onto the floor.

"I appreciate the offer, but I don't think that'll be necessary. I'm feeling a lot better actually. I think Tante's right, a shower and some sleep will do me wonders."

"As you wish. But, I insist on posting guards outside for the night. Are you remaining in the city for a while?"

"I don't think so. Couple days maybe, just to finish cleaning up. The house is pretty much in order, and I know who ripped it up in the first place, right? No point in staying." Tante bustled into the room, her long skirt sweeping the wooden floor.

"No point 'cept giving yourself time to rest before you go charging back into that crazy life you lead." She tsked over me and handed me the ice pack. "Those Avengers can live without you for a spell."

"Yes, ma'am," I said quietly. Jean-Luc stood and kissed me again.

"The guards will be here as long as you are, petite. It's the least I can do." He helped me stand, and then he and Tante guided me upstairs before they locked up for me and left me alone. I looked longingly at the bathtub, but wasn't sure I'd be able to get myself out of it, and that was not something I would call Jean-Luc to help me with. I started the shower and peeled my dirt crusted dress from my aching body. I should have taken him up on his offer and had him or Tante stay, but I felt I had already abused their hospitality. No matter how much I liked the man, what I didn't like was the idea of being indebted to him more than I already was, not when I didn't entirely trust him or his motivations. 'Sides, if Bella Donna had been neutralized and I had my own retinue of thieves standing watch, what more did I need? I sighed. Answers, maybe? God dammit, Irene, what had you been expecting to happen here? Had this been some harebrained scheme gone wrong? Some half-formed plot, long forgotten? I fought the tears that welled up and made my way under the shower's stream.

The scalding water stung the jagged scratches and scrapes on my skin, tumbling to my feet and down the drain in grey and red swirls. I lathered and scrubbed, untangling the rat's nest on top of my head until my fingers were pale prunes. I didn't have the heart to wipe the steam from the mirror to look at my bruised and swollen face, so I wrapped a towel around me, turned off the bathroom light and hobbled to the end of the bed. I plopped down with a bounce and held my breath as I punched Logan's number. He answered before the first ring was through.

"Are you all right, darlin'? Where the hell have you been?!" I sighed softly. At least he had asked if I was okay before he started yellin' at me.

"I'm fine, sugar. Just ran into a little trouble is all, but it's taken care of…"

"That tears it! I'm on the next plane, shouldn't have let you go on your own in the first place!" _Let_ me? I was tired and hurt, but nobody got my temper roaring like Logan.

"Logan," my voiced hissed through gritted teeth. "Listen very carefully to what I am about to say to you, sugar. I am fine. It is handled. I don't need you down here, don't want you down here. This is my business and it doesn't involve you, _bub_." He growled, but his voice softened.

"You gonna tell me what happened?"

"I will, sugar, just not tonight. I'm exhausted. I should be home in a few days, I'll give you all the details then." The only sound I heard from him for a few heartbeats was the forced in and out of his breathing.

"Fine," he finally said. "I don't like it, but it is what it is. But your ass is calling me twice a day until you're back in New York, understand?" My laugh was unenthusiastic.

"Yes, sir."

"Good night then, I guess."

"To you, too. And Logan?"

"Yeah, darlin'?"

"Thanks for caring, sugar." He grumbled and hung up. Exhaustion hit me solid, and I was beyond finished with this day. I made sure the handgun was under the pillow next to mine, clicked off the light, threw the towel towards the bathroom door and pulled the smooth sheet over my naked body, blissfully asleep before my head hit the pillow.


	7. Chapter 7

All characters owned by Marvel Comics

Author's note: This chapter, mature audiences only. Hope he was worth the wait.

 **Chapter 7**

A crack of thunder woke me, so loud it would have done Thor himself proud, the accompanying lightning turning night to high noon when I snapped open my eyelids. My groggy brain registered a few things in that split second flash, the first being that I had somehow kicked off the sheet and was currently sprawled butt-ass naked across the middle of the bed. The second, and much more troubling, I wasn't alone. In the intermittent bursts of light I caught the outline of a figure slinking in the shadows. I kept my breathing even to feign sleep, but slowly slid my hand towards the handgun nestled beneath the extra pillow. My fingertips brushed cold steel when the shadow spoke.

"Anna? Chere?" Remy's graceful fingers found my ankle and sent a pond ripple of goosebumps up the length of my body. I let go of the gun and sat up, patting the bed around me in search of the runaway sheet. I caught the edge of the twisted fabric and tugged it towards me, hoping to recover a little of my dignity, but Remy reached for my ankle again.

"Don't…" he whispered roughly. Don't? A flare of white hot indignation bubbled up my throat. It had been a month since he could even give me the courtesy of a phone call, then he shows up in my bedroom, uninvited, expecting, what, exactly? Irritated, I yanked on the cover and tucked it under my arms, preparing to tear him a new one for all the things he was presuming. I reached over and snapped on the nightstand lamp, wincing as the dim light illuminated my bedroom, but at the sight of him my righteous fury faltered. His darkly beautiful face looked tired, haggard, his eyes troubled. My heart welled up in my chest, a huge wave of relief threatening to wash over me and drown my sanctimonious snit. I had nearly died tonight, and if I had, I would have died without clearing the air between us. It certainly wasn't the first time I had come that close to death, and wouldn't be the last if I continued in my chosen career, but a brush like that always helped put things into perspective. I could have still been dreaming, but the man I loved was standing right in front of me, tantalizingly close. I curled my legs under me, taking a deep breath to calm myself before I said something I would regret.

"What are you doing here, Remy?" The rain began in earnest and lashed the wall of windows.

"Logan called me." Should have known. I leaned heavy on one arm and counted to ten before my temper answered him for me. Whatever Tante had given me really had done wonders for the aches and pains of my body, I almost felt normal. However, her voodoo tea hadn't improved my disposition over the happenings of the last couple days. It wasn't fair for me to blame Remy, not really, and I wasn't looking to. Sure, it was his city and his people, his crazy ex-wife, but what had occurred tonight had been a culmination of events my foster mother had set into motion before either of us was born. "He figured you got yourself in a little trouble."

"He's an asshole," I muttered and Remy laughed.

"Usually. But then, Jean-Luc called me, too…" His hand found my ankle again and traced small circles around the bone. "Thought maybe it was more than just Papa Bear Logan's imagination."

"Jean-Luc, he's an asshole, too."

"Oui. Born and raised." His fingertips strayed from his circles to trail up my exposed calf. His voice continued, so quiet I could barely hear him over the pounding rain. "What I can't figure out, Anna, is why _you_ didn't call me." He kept his touch in fairly neutral territory, though it was coming real close to the border and was extremely distracting. Being near him was quickly eroding my anger. It had been so long since the two of us had been alone together without super-powered distractions that I had forgotten what effect he had on me, how just his presence lit a fire inside me yet soothed me at the same time. We were both so damaged by our parents and our pasts, so afraid to let ourselves be vulnerable and trust each other that we had ruined every chance we had gotten to make things work between us. I wanted to scream at him and kick him out of my room, to push him away before we could hurt each other again, but I felt that magnetic pull of our souls that would not be denied, that missing piece of me so temptingly near, so ready to come home. That was what he did to me. Five minutes in his company, and Remy LeBeau had taken ahold of my pride and threw it against a wall with both hands.

"Sugar, I didn't want to bother you. Thought I could handle it myself, didn't want to pull you into my troubles."

"Never any trouble where you concerned, chere." I laughed softly and he traced my bruised jawline lightly with his knuckles, worry etched across his face.

"You sure about that?" I could hear the smile in his voice when he answered me.

"Absolutely." He brought a knee onto the bed and leaned towards me, but I pressed a hand flat against his chest to stop him. His handsome face smiled at me sadly, and he shifted his weight back to the floor at my apparent dismissal. Months ago, in the same sentence that he had told me he loved me like he loved nobody else, he had sent me packing and ended our relationship. It had hurt, had torn me apart, and had sent me far, far away from our love. I had chewed on that conversation over and over, had thought of what I could have done or said differently, had dreamed of how our eventual reunion would play out. Part of me wanted to throw it all back at him, the pain, the regret, the loneliness, but the other part of me had missed him so desperately, so completely, and that part of me screamed for him to hold me and tell me everything was gonna be okay. Our relationship was a laundry list of missed opportunities and blown chances, but in that moment I decided tonight, right now, was not gonna be one of them. I wasn't going to let him slip away this time.

I caught the bottom edge of his t-shirt and tugged forward, sliding a hand underneath to trace the soft trail of hair running up through the carved canyon of his abs. I pushed the fabric skyward, my fingers soaking in the delicious heat of his skin, rough where it should be, soft in a few secret places. I dropped the sheet and he got the hint real quick, ripping off his shirt, and with one shake of a belt buckle he was as naked as I was. He moved onto the bed as close as he could get without touching me, my every nerve screaming for him.

"You sure about this? You're hurt…" his hesitant voice whispered. I cupped his jaw, the skin rough with several days of stubble, between my hands and drew him to my lips. I said everything I could say with that kiss, more than my voice ever could, poured my heart and soul into him. He responded enthusiastically, raining kisses on my cheeks, my forehead, my nose, fiery butterfly wings that worked their way down my body in a slow aching whisper. By the time he reached my rib cage, my insides had liquefied and I was panting erratically, my heart hammering so loud he surely heard it over the thunder. He leaned me back and moved slowly lower and lower, his kisses branding every inch of my skin, consciously reclaiming my body as his own. He passed my belly button and gently nudged my legs apart, his whispered kisses and clever tongue finding my arousal. I shuddered, his attentions sending ripples of pleasure radiating from fingertips to toes, sending me throbbing over the edge of that exquisite chasm in a shower of fireworks that left me quivering beneath him. He moved his body to cover mine, and I felt his hardness pulsing at my entrance. His body was heavy and warm and I ran my hand up and down the taut muscles of his back, letting myself get lost in the delicious feel of so much skin pressed against mine. He pushed back the loose, sweaty strands of my hair as he held my face in his hands.

"This is how it should always be between us…I won't lose you again…" he murmured huskily, his forehead pressed against mine. My heart swelled into my throat at his words, and I let it all go, the pain, the anger, the sadness, and looked deep into those ruby pools he called his eyes.

"I…I love you, Remy," I whispered and I pulled him to me and into me, a moan of absolute ecstasy passing his perfect lips as I wrapped every inch of me around every inch of him. He moved against me, slowly at first, savoring every stroke. My legs circled his trim waist when he picked up the pace, held on desperately, losing myself in the motions of our hips grinding together, of our bodies joining as one.

"I love you I love you I love you…" his words against my lips were as forceful as his thrusts inside me, our cries and the hammering of the headboard equal to the raging storm in the night sky.

"Remy…Remy!" I arched my back and clung to him frantically, exploding inside again, shuddering around him fiercely.

"Mon dieu!" My own climax sent him pounding furiously against me and he groaned and finished inside of me, collapsing on top of me in sweaty satisfaction.


	8. Chapter 8

All characters owned by Marvel Comics

Author's note: Last chapter! Thanks for reading, hope you enjoyed my little story! And, I swear, for any of you who have read my Rogan story _Coming Home_ , I am not obsessed with this kind of…conclusion for our girl Rogue, I just wanted a story where Remy had his chance. You know how I love my happy endings…Thanks again!

 **Chapter 8**

A contented Cajun woke me shortly after dawn, nuzzling affectionately against the side of my neck. We had eventually fallen asleep in a gratified tangle of limbs while the storms rained themselves out last night, giving way to what looked to be a peaceful sunrise, the weather a reflection of what had transpired between us.

"Good morning, sugar," I smiled drowsily, enjoying the warmth of his body against my backside, the strength of his muscular arms around me.

"That it is, mon amour, that it is." He nibbled his way from my earlobe to my collarbone, his breath tickling something fierce. I turned around to swat him and kiss him proper, but when I did his face fell. "Oh, Anna…" he murmured and touched his elegantly honed fingertips lightly to the side of my face. I winced, nearly forgetting the beating I had taken yesterday courtesy of Bella Donna's cronies. I had to have looked like hell, even Tante had said her miracle brew wouldn't take all the bruising away, though it had certainly made me feel better. "Chere, I'm so sorry…" I put a hand over his mouth. I knew he would try to take all this on himself, Remy the martyr couldn't resist a whole heaping plate of guilt, but the start and finish of this mess rested on Irene Adler, not on him.

"This ain't your fault, Remy." He took hold of my hand and kissed it fiercely, his red on black eyes a brutal sea of melancholy.

"How can you say that? My ex-wife kidnapped you, tried to kill you. She hates you because of your involvement with me, why else would she come after you?"

"Oh, you know Bella Donna. Woman just can't help being a cun…" I swallowed the last 't' at the expression on his face "…cerned citizen." He clenched his jaw like he did when he was burying himself in misdirected misery, but I just wasn't having it this morning. We had come so far last night, but we still had way too much to deal with for us to fall into old routines. On the rare occasions we had been able to touch each other without the limitations of my power, the physical side of our relationship had been truly amazing, as natural as breathing. It was the emotional side where things were too complicated for our own good. We had what I hoped was a breakthrough last night in each other's arms, had found each other again, and I wanted to keep the pendulum swinging. "Sides…" I continued, "…not entirely sure we can pin this one on you two's unfinished business." He stared at me with an intensity that made my heart skip a beat.

"Why's that?" So, I told him. About the break in and the tarot card, about Phillip and Angelique, about Irene's last diary with me as the star, about its missing pages. When I was done, he ripped the sheet off himself and stood, running his hands anxiously through his disheveled chin-length hair. I sat up and tucked the sheet around me, admiring that gorgeous butt of his, watched as that tanned and toned body stooped to recover his discarded blue jeans. He grinned wickedly at me, eyes twinkling when he caught sight of me ogling his nether regions. Pulling folded pieces of paper from his pants pocket, he came back around the bed and sat next to me, staring down at the yellowed sheets of parchment.

"Thought I recognized the handwriting," he said softly and handed them to me. Panic gripped me, fear, but I opened them, the missing pages of the diary Irene had given me by way of Angelique, at least two of them anyway. Crinkling between my fingers was the image I had pulled from Phillip's memory, front and center. "These were all Jean-Luc's people could recover," Remy continued. "She was burning them in the fireplace when they got to her." The drawing was even more disturbing in person, the expression on the face of the me on the page gleefully murderous. Only two pages were left, she had burnt the rest. I didn't know whether to scream or laugh or both. Knowing my own future could have driven me as crazy as Bella Donna or my momma Mystique. Better to be surprised, made the ride more fun. A strange sense of relief settled over me, but I couldn't stop myself from looking at the other page, after all, Remy had seen it, it only seemed fair. With a trembling hand, I flipped to it.

"Oh, my…" I sucked in a shaky breath. The drawing was a mirror image of the last, only instead of me and Belle, it was me and Remy. Instead of me choking the life out of him, one hand lovingly rested on his face, the other over his heart. It was a beautiful image, the details a photo-realistic impossibility from the pen of a blind woman. At the bottom, in Irene's elegant scrawl, the caption read _'Love conquers all, even the cold hand of Death'_. My eyes blurred, tears running down my chin to rain drop onto the aging paper.

"Anna, chere, don't…" Remy wiped the tears from my face and kissed me sweetly, deeply. He pulled the pages from my hands and smiled that LeBeau smile stolen from the devil himself. "How 'bout some breakfast?"

"What? Remy, we need to talk about this!" I was a bewildered emotional wreck and he was suggesting pancakes? My damned traitor stomach growled loudly, but in its defense it had been a couple of days since it had a decent meal. He laughed and helped me to my feet.

"We will, but I happen to know you think better when your belly's full." Shimmying into his jeans, he headed downstairs, and I excused myself to the little girl's room, wrapping my robe around myself when I was finished. I made the mistake of looking into the mirror above the sink. No wonder Remy had winced, the bruises had blossomed overnight, one side of my face from temple to jaw was a mottled mess of swollen purples, and my wrists and ankles sported similarly painful paintjobs.

Determined to at least look presentable, I dug into my toiletry bag for my brush, intent on tackling the tangled disaster on top of my head, but it had scooted to the bottom of the bag. Irritated, I started pulling out the contents: lotions, deodorant, my birth control pills. My fingertips froze as I sat those pills on the marble countertop, and I regarded them cautiously. I picked the palm-sized plastic compact back up, and flipped it open to reveal the colorful concentric circles inside. The last pill I had popped had been Tuesday. Jesus H. Christ, what day was it? My heart fluttered and my knees wobbled, I had to grab the counter for support. Surely not. People missed pills all the time, right? I shook my head and slammed the pack shut onto the counter. I was being ridiculous, and I was as presentable as I was gonna get for my date with a heaping plate of pancakes. And bacon. He had better found the bacon. I hobbled from the bathroom and pushed that little nagging doubt all the way down into the pit of my stomach. I was a little sore navigating the staircase and took it slowly, sniffing at the air in search of the beginnings of breakfast.

"Remy?" I called when I hit the ground floor.

"In here, chere." He wasn't in the kitchen, but in the sitting room, admiring the view of the garden. Calvin had done a wonderful job installing the new window, I'd have to stop and drop off his check, thank him and Zoe for all their help. Remy turned and smiled broadly.

"Just taking a stroll down memory lane, Anna." I stepped next to him and he put one arm around me and pulled me into his side. He kissed the top of my head, and in that moment there was so much I wanted to say to him, how I was wrong, how we belonged together, how nothing else mattered to me, but I couldn't get it past the tip of my tongue. He sighed noisily and I got the impression his thoughts were walking the same road as mine. It was all right, we had plenty of time…

"Pancakes?" he asked, and turned us towards the kitchen.

"And bacon." We barely took two steps when he halted.

"What is _this_?" He snatched the forgotten family photograph that had gotten me into this mess from the antique side table. "Look what a cutie you are!" he cried, delighted. I tried to snag it from his hands, but he darted away from me. "Mystique actually don't look like she fixin' to murder somebody…"

"She had her moments." I smiled warmly, but my face froze in horror. In the streaming light of the morning sun, it was now clear that the back of the photograph was decorated with several lines of Irene's scrawling handwriting. My stomach dropped, and I had to grab the edge of the table to stop a full-on swoon. Dismayed, I reached for the picture, and Remy reached for me, alarmed.

"What is it, chere?"

"The back…" was all I could choke out. He flipped it and I shoved myself underneath the circle of his arms to take a look.

 _'My darling Anna and her darling Remy…"_ Irene had written.

"You gotta be fucking kidding me," Remy muttered, but my eyes frantically followed each loop and whorl as it continued:

 _'Every so often, my powers presented me with the opportunity to orchestrate wonderfully happy accidents. Love is precious, true love rare. Grab tightly to one another with both hands and do not let go._

 _My love, always, Irene_

 _P.S. I find the name Olivier quite perfect, wouldn't you agree?'_

I was shaking and left Remy holding the picture, moving for the sofa, trying to control the quaking, panicked gasps of breath coming from my mouth. Oh, Irene. You didn't. You couldn't. We didn't. I groaned and held my head in my hands. But we did. My mind spun itself in disbelieving circles. Tuesday. The last pill I had taken was Tuesday. Remy still stood turning the photograph over and over as if searching for more of Irene's words.

"'Happy accident'? What you think that means?" Irene Adler, Destiny, was the greatest precog that had ever lived. All through this ridiculousness, I had wondered how someone so good hadn't foreseen the diary pages getting to Bella Donna, how she had not predicted the danger it placed me in, why she would put me in such a bind, but that was just it. She had not only predicted it, she had expected it, counted on Bella Donna's fury and my reaction, had seen my rescue, had known Remy would come to me in the dark of night. Watching the events as they unfolded in the depths of her mind decades ago, my future foster mother must have seen a chance to twist things just a little, to tug on the chains of fate and tweak it to her liking. I covered my mouth with a hand, but couldn't stifle the laughing sob that escaped it. Remy hurriedly knelt in front of me.

"Anna, what is it?" His worried eyes tried to catch mine, and his strong hands gripped my knees forcefully. Two days of missed pills and a marathon night of unprotected love-making? I knew it was completely preposterous to assume what I was assuming, and it was much too early to find out anything definitively, but when Irene had put her mind to something…

"Today's Friday," I laughed through my tears and kissed his beautifully bewildered face soundly on the mouth.

My foster mother. What can I say? She was the best.

 **The End**


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